The surprise faded from her ladyship’s eyes. “Yes, indeed. Lucilla was kind enough to invite him for the ball. I’m sure he’ll attend. He was very much taken with Clarissa, you know.” She glanced across the room to where Clarissa was surrounded by a small coterie of young gentlemen. “Mind you, I expect he’ll be in good company. As I told your aunt, fully half the young men in town will be prostrating themselves at Clarissa’s feet.”
Sophie laughed and steered the conversation towards the social events thus far revealed on the ton’s horizon. She was somewhat relieved when Jack chipped in with the news of the balloon ascension planned for May, thus distracting Lord Entwhistle, who declaimed at length on the folly of the idea.
His lordship was still declaiming when Minton entered, transcending the impression conveyed by his severe garb to announce in jovially benevolent vein that dinner was served.
Lord and Lady Entwhistle went together to join the exodus. Jack turned to Sophie. “I believe, dear Sophie, that the pleasure of escorting you in falls…to me.”
Sophie smiled up at him and calmly surrendered her hand. “That will be most pleasant, sir.”
With her hand on his arm, Jack steered her into the shuffling queue.
Laughing chatter greeted them as they strolled into the dining-room. The surface of the table, polished to a mellow glow, reflected light fractured by crystal and deflected by silver. A subtle excitement filled the air; this was, after all, the first of the large gatherings, and those present were the chosen few who would start the ball of the Season rolling. Horatio, genially rotund, took his place at the table’s head; Lucilla graced the opposite end, while Clarissa, sparkling in a gown of fairy-like silvered rose silk, sat in the middle on one side. Ned beside her. Jack led Sophie to her place opposite Clarissa, then took the seat on her right.
As she glanced about, taking note of her neighbours, Sophie took comfort from Jack’s presence beside her. Despite his apparently ingrained habits, he always drew back whenever she baulked—smoothly, suavely, ineffably rakish, yet a gentleman to his very bones. She now felt confident in his company, convinced he would never press her unduly nor step over that invisible line.
There was, indeed, a certain excitement to be found in his games, and a certain balm in the warmth of his deep blue gaze.
The toast to Clarissa was duly drunk; her cousin blushed prettily while Ned looked on, a slightly stunned expression on his face.
As she resumed her seat, Sophie glanced at Jack. He was watching her; he raised his glass and quietly said, “To your Season, dear Sophie. And to where it will lead.”
Inwardly Sophie shivered, but she smiled and inclined her head graciously.
On her left was Mr. Somercote, a distant Webb cousin, a gentleman of independent means whom her uncle had introduced as hailing from Northamptonshire. While obviously at home in the ton, Mr. Somercote was reserved almost to the point of rudeness. Sophie applied herself but could tease no more than the barest commonplaces from him.
The lady on Jack’s right was a Mrs. Wolthambrook, an elderly widow, another Webb connection. Sophie wondered at the wisdom of her aunt’s placement, but by the end of the first course, her confidence in Lucilla had been restored. The old lady had a wry sense of humour which Jack, in typical vein, recognized and played to. Sophie found herself drawn into a lively discussion, Mrs. Wolthambrook, Jack and herself forming a nexus of conversation which served to disguise the shortcomings of others in the vicinity.
It was almost a surprise to find the dessert course over. With a rustle of silk skirts, Lucilla rose and issued a charming directive sending them all to the ballroom.
While ascending the stairs on Jack’s arm, Sophie noticed the glimmer of a frown in Lady Entwhistle’s sharp eyes. It was, Sophie decided, hardly to be wondered at: installing Jack Lester as her partner at dinner had clearly declared her aunt’s hand. Lucilla was playing Cupid. It was inconceivable that, after nearly three weeks in the capital, her aunt was not au fait concerning Jack Lester’s state. But Lucilla was not one to follow the conventions in matters of the heart; she had married Horatio Webb when he was far less well-to-do than at present, apparently without a qualm. Sophie’s own mother, too, had married for love. It was, in fact, something of a family trait.
Unfortunately, Sophie thought, casting a fleeting glance at Jack’s darkly handsome profile, it was not one she was destined to follow. Hiding her bruised heart behind a serene smile, she crossed the threshold of the ballroom.
Under the soft flare of candlelight cast by three huge chandeliers, the efforts of the florists and decorators looked even better than by day. The tops of the smooth columns supporting the delicately domed ceiling had been garnished with sprays of white and yellow roses, long golden ribbons swirling down around the columns. The minstrels’ gallery above the end of the room was similarly festooned with white, yellow and green, trimmed with gold. Tall iron pedestals supporting ironwork cones overflowing with the same flowers filled the corners of the room and stood spaced every few yards along the long mirrored wall, with chaises and chairs set between. The opposite wall contained long windows giving onto the terrace; some were ajar, letting in the evening breeze.
The guests dutifully oohed and aahed, many ladies taking special note of the unusual use of ironwork.
Jack’s blue eyes glinted down at her. “As I said, my dear, your aunt’s efforts are indeed formidable.”
Sophie smiled, but her heart was not in it; it felt as if her evening was ending when, with a graceful bow, Jack surrendered her to her duty on the receiving line.
He had bespoken a waltz, she reminded herself, giving her emotions a mental shake. Conjuring up a bright smile, she dutifully greeted the arrivals, taking due note of those her aunt introduced with a certain subtle emphasis. Lucilla might be encouraging Jack Lester, but it was clear she was equally intent on giving Sophie a range of suitable gentlemen from which to make her choice.
Which was just as well, Sophie decided. Tonight was the start of her Season proper; she should make a real start on her hunt for a husband. There was no sense in putting off the inevitable. And it would no doubt be wise to make it abundantly plain that she was not infected with Lucilla’s ideals. She could not marry Jack Lester, for he needed more money than she would bring. Embarking on her search for a husband would clari
fy their relationship, making it plain to such avid watchers as Lady Entwhistle and Lady Matcham that there was nothing to fear in her friendship with Jack.
Stifling a sigh, Sophie pinned on a smile as her aunt turned to greet the latest in the long line of guests.
“Ah, Mr. Marston,” Lucilla purred. “I’m so glad you could come.”
Sophie swallowed a most unladylike curse. She waited, trapped in line, as Mr. Marston greeted Clarissa with chilly civility, his glance austerely dismissing the enchanting picture her cousin made.
Then his gaze reached her—and Sophie privately resolved to send a special thank-you to Madame Jorge. Mr. Marston’s distant civility turned to frigid disapproval as he took in her bare shoulders and the expanse of ivory skin exposed by the low, slanting neckline of her gown.
Sophie smiled sunnily. “Good evening, sir. I trust you are well.”
Mr. Marston bowed. “I…” He drew himself up, his lips pinched. “I will look to have a few words with you later, Miss Winterton.”